


Solus

by Kelpie_Mist



Series: Skipping Stones [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Young Obi-Wan Kenobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelpie_Mist/pseuds/Kelpie_Mist
Summary: During that first night, when he awakes to the overwhelming sensation of light and life flooding his senses, the first thing he does is panic.
Series: Skipping Stones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746484
Comments: 12
Kudos: 298





	Solus

**Author's Note:**

> Solus - Mando’a for ‘one, alone, individual, vulnerable’

The mere thought of staying at the Jedi Temple brings back the ache that he thought was long gone to flare with an agonising ferocity. He can’t bear the thought of facing his former Master, nor can he look another Jedi in the face without bursting into tears. It takes him several breathless minutes of sinking himself into the Force and reaching out tentatively to make him realise that this is not a dream nor a vision. It takes several more for it to finally sink in, and he very nearly shatters right there and then.

The grief and pain that he had so carefully packed away surges up powerfully, threatening to come undone, now that he was suddenly plunged into the reality where the Jedi where _alive and whole,_ and not _dead_ and _gone_ and _killed_. 

During that first night, when he awakes to the overwhelming sensation of light and life flooding his senses, the first thing he does is panic. The memories crowd his mind, images and sound flashing in an unrelenting barrage and he can't stop the cry from tearing out of his throat, completely swept away by a forceful current of images.

His mind is a battlefield of bodies and red seeping into the ground. There are too many memories, and all the emotion that he had long since blocked comes pouring back in monumental strength. There is the sadness, a pulsating grey mist of tangible sorrow suffocating his head. There is pain, a howling, _screaming_ storm swirling around in a maelstrom of a thousand tears and heartbreak. There are rivers of blood, bright hot and volcanic and they swallow him whole until he is bathing with it, choking,  _ drowning  _ but he can’t do anything because this is all his fault and  _ he deserves it.  _

He deserves the pain and the curse of being alone, because in the bitter end, he fails everyone. That’s the painful truth, the one that he couldn’t even bear to admit, not even to himself. It’s one that he’s avoided for so long, having spent years deluding himself into falling for that false hope that maybe everything will turn out okay. But it isn't and everything is not okay. He is Obi-Wan Kenobi and he destroys everything he touches, he’s known this from the first time he had lain eyes on Cerasi and he thinks that he _ loves her _ and she dies in his arms and her blood soaks his hands. 

He’s loved so many people and he lost them all. Their names haunt him, repeating themselves in a relentless litany of garbled syllables in his head. He needs to remember, has to. Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fail them all over again, this time by letting their memory go and making them fade into nothing more than formless ghosts that will cease to exist. Attachment. He’s not a good Jedi, let alone a perfect one. He’s a failure hiding behind a mask of success because he is a coward and perhaps always has been. 

He’s not good enough, never has been, and he fails his Master because Qui-Gon dies in his arms - _ promise me you will train the boy _ \- still ringing in the air between them. He loves Siri with a tentative, cautious naive love, but it is love all the same, and history repeats itself and she dies in his arms too. 

He loves Satine and it is a fiery passionate love and during his weakest moments, he thinks that he would burn the world for her. Obi-Wan would have  _ stayed  _ had she said the words, but she didn’t and he didn’t offer and almost two decades later, she also dies. He watches helplessly, terror and grief and horror pulsing in his veins as Maul guts her in revenge, and her last breath shudders away from her still body.

The oily, suffocating feeling of death clings to him, dripping off his body like blood and forming a tangible shadow, and he knows with a terrible certainty that it will snuff out anyone that gets too close to him. He brings death wherever he goes, and invites suffering to every place he touches. He is a monster, because he takes and takes and people die because of him. 

He’s not the same person he was so long ago, _he’s really not_. He’s not that terrified Initiate that was shipped out of the Temple, nor is he that desperate Padawan seeking his Master’s love and approval. He’s not that respected General either, the one that everyone looked up to and admired. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi died with Anakin upon the fiery shores of Mustafar and all that’s left is an empty,  _ useless _ shell that can’t even be called a person anymore.

Underneath the too-large covers, his too-small body shudders. Harsh tears sting his eyes and he trembles, unable to control the shivers that snake up his spine. Great, wracking gasps escape his lips and he flinches, slapping his hands over his mouth to muffle the noise. He cries but like always, it is silent and noiseless. It’s another lesson that he has learned the hard way. He’s learned how to break without letting anyone else know. There were too many sleepless nights upon the  _ Negotiator _ , where he had let his mask crack in the safety of his quarters and the tears stream down his eyes as he shakes silently, mourning for all the brothers that they lost. It seems like lifetimes ago, yet still so fresh, when he would curl up with Cody after a particularly devasting battle, and the two of them would just break quietly, each in their own way.

Cody never cried but he would lean against Obi-Wan, eyes raw with grief and loss and the awful weight of responsibility.

The thought of his troops sends a fresh stab of pain through his chest. 

He misses them so much that it _ hurts,  _ but it's a quiet devastating ache. It is an ache that is dulled and weathered by years of wasting away uselessly and without a purpose. But he’s not willing to spiral back into those dark thoughts. Not yet, anyway. He knows that if he starts thinking of them, he will break and he’s not sure that he will be able to put himself back together again.

There’s too much to think about, too much to mourn. Too many wrong choices that he had foolishly made and too many secrets hidden away in his head. There’s a chasm between Before and After, then and now that nobody will be able to bridge. He’s seen too much and done too many things.

Obi-Wan’s breath quickens, and he slips out of the soft bed. A bed is another luxury that he has long since forgotten. It belongs to another Obi-Wan and another lifetime that was so far away but now, suddenly, it’s not.

That’s what scares him the most. He’s killed this Obi-Wan. He feels guilty and it’s too much. His thoughts keep crashing into one another, a white hot flash of jumbled words, and he’s not sure he can take another moment of this. It’s too bright and noisy, and there are too many colours - crimson grey cerulean emerald - flashing in his head. The broken bonds of his past burn in his skull as it tries to reconnect with the new - old? - ones.

Obi-Wan runs, fleeing without second thought. He runs and runs because that is all that he is good for and he  _ has to get out. _

He stumbles awkwardly and almost trips over himself. He is not used to this body, and it’s too small and skinny. His limbs flail wildly ( _ OafyWanOafyWan _ ) and he has to visibly steel himself to continue his mad dash throughout the Temple halls and corridors.

He moves on sheer willpower alone, taking off like a shot into the night. He hasn’t been here for years, but his body knows the way, so he lets his feet guide him. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. The walls - so blessedly free of blaster scorches and splatters of blood - pass by him and the floor beneath his feet is mercifully free from the bodies of the dead. No, he can’t think about that now. Obi-Wan shrinks his Force presence until he is practically untraceable, hiding his dying star underneath the mental equivalent of durasteel layers.

At night, the temple is virtually empty, save for the occasional and rare nocturnal Jedi that it houses.

But he is lucky, and that’s good, because he can’t face another Jedi right now.

His lungs are burning as he comes to a stop near the entrance of the Jedi Temple, but that’s not what stops him. Two sentinels flank either side and they feel like shadows in the night, unyielding and still. Obi-Wan can feel their alertness in the Force, despite the fact that it is well into the night. _ Of course, _ he thinks, angrily at himself.

He should have known that they were there. He should have been smarter, seek another escape route or perhaps go through the old ventilation vents. But he didn’t and now, he has wasted so much time and -

\- a reckless part of him wants to run past the sentinels.

He can do it, he thinks desperately. He’s evaded Dooku and Ventress and Grievous for years. He’s evaded Darth Vader and stormtroopers and Tusken Raiders. He should be able to do this, or maybe that's just the arrogance speaking. His cheeks flush red, and he ducks his head in shame. Sentinels are trained, he reminds himself, squashing down the  _ annoyanceangerhatred.  _

When it does come, the weight of his actions hits him abruptly. The exhaustion comes crashing down on him and his legs become leaden and heavy. He sinks to the marble ground, utterly drained. His eyes sting red and upon closer examination, he realises that there are traces of blood in his uneven fingernails, from where he had dug them into his palm too hard.

He’s supposed to be dead, he thinks dully.

He’s… so…. tired….

_ Sleep, my child _ , the Force murmurs quietly, caressing the boy’s trembling form until it stops shaking and he is dragged under by sleep and weariness.

_ Rest your tears, dear one. Change is here. _


End file.
